


Midnight (Is Our Hour)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: A new age begins, Antiheroes and the masked men they love, BatCat, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mafia families, Vigilantes (in training)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 16:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11993175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Their paths run parallel.  Then they brush against each other.  And, at midnight, they fully entwine.





	Midnight (Is Our Hour)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own "Gotham" or any characters, events, etc. related to the "Batman" franchise. I'm just playing in the sandbox and making a mess of myself in the process. :)

At the age of sixteen, Selina officially earns a place on She-Wolf’s council.

She is a child no more, not in body and never in mind or spirit. Equally so, she is not the street-rat of previous lifetimes: dirty denim and shirts stolen from unaware storekeepers. She is a creature of feline grace befitting a nickname which is employed only in describing her demeanor, never used to actually address her. Those days are passed and with each new dawn she forgets a little more of the days wherein such was the norm.

This is not to say she forgets who she once was. She chooses to remember the lessons of the street, for they were hard-learned lessons and each one sharpened her edges, heightened her senses, in ways nothing else ever could. But she has changed. She is not the wayward assassin sent on a fool’s errand, taken under the care of a ghost. She is the young woman with honeyed curls and piercing green eyes; sleek lines and smooth curves crafted from diligent self-training and the blossom of womanhood. She is the beauty who wears moonlight more than she does sun (though she is bronzed enough to honor time spent in the latter) and sits at She-Wolf’s left, clad in black leather from throat to boot-toe. She says little but sees all. Grown men do not accost her, even on the streets. The clanswomen treat her as a daughter. The young wolf, the pup growing with every day, is her sister and she keeps watch with an intensity to match the white tiger.

Selina Kyle is of She-Wolf’s clan, and the street-girl known as Cat is a faded memory.

***

At the age of sixteen, Bruce officially takes over Wayne Enterprises.

The media has an absolute field day with it, and every tabloid sold in Gotham declares the news in bold, sprawling headlines: _Gotham’s Golden Boy Ascends._ Everyone talks about it for weeks: from the wealthiest elite to the lowest beggar. The only thing not done is someone shouting it from the rooftops.

Jim Gordon is a different sort, and pays his respects with quiet grace. He was the first informed in a private manner by Alfred, and he is the first to arrive at the manor’s door with a smile and a bottle of champagne (ginger ale, for Bruce, though Alfred is absent when Jim allows a small sip with a sly wink and neither of them say a thing about it) to commemorate the occasion. They share a few toasts before the night comes to an end, and Alfred sets Jim up in the guest room.

The board of Wayne Enterprises has their opinions on the matter, and no one is particularly subtle in expressing a single one. Some are more passive about it, others are outright offensive, but no one truly holds their tongue. A few directly threaten his life, in what Alfred succinctly calls an action only made by the dumbest of dimwitted bastards.

He does not disagree with his butler, but adjustments clearly need to be made. Firing the entire board is easiest, but such threats cannot be taken lightly. Not in Gotham.

Bruce Wayne is Gotham’s golden boy, but he only plays the part of a carefree socialite. The Golden Boy has a brain, and he knows how to use it.

***

A year has passed since Bruce Wayne last saw Selina Kyle. (His preparations to take over the company involved long and time-consuming processes; her molding into a ranking member of the mafia wrapped her in secrecy and late nights. The days of moonlight rendezvous came to a stop, privately regretted by both but acknowledged as unavoidable.) As their eyes meet across the meeting room of DeLaine Manor, he pauses a moment to appreciate the look of her beauty accented in black and she smiles thinly at his tailored suit. The discomfort of entering to the unexpected company of half a dozen mafia lieutenants, all looking fit to rip him apart at a moment’s notice, is ebbed by the look in her eyes and the smile on her lips.

Then someone speaks, and the world begins turning once more.

“She-Wolf has no business to conduct with little boys.” The man stands with emphasis, hand at his hip (and holstered gun); this one has dark eyes and a scar up the left cheek. “Run along to your sand box.”

“Hold your tongue, Vincent.” Iris DeLaine (the need to refer to her as ‘Ms. DeLaine’ passed almost two years ago) speaks with the kind of authority Bruce seeks for himself, to use against those who threaten him and his family’s memory. He looks at her now, this woman at the table-head with blue eyes bright and slender form draped in purple and grey: the great tiger rests at her side, blue eyes looking nowhere and at no one but the little one napping in its fur.

(He smiles, even only to himself, to see how the baby is growing. Alfred must have lectured him for two hours, following the spontaneous purchasing of various baby items, on spending money he technically didn’t have.)

Iris continues, authority unwavering on her tongue. “You speak to the commander of Gotham’s greatest, and oldest, corporations. And you will offer your respect.”

She further dismisses them, all the men, and leaves them alone with the babe, the tiger, and the young woman in black leather. Bruce might say Selina is a world-apart from the girl with whom he spent many nights traipsing across rooftops, but she really is not. She is still the same, but refined. Like a diamond. Or an emerald.

(Emerald, for her eyes.)

“I appreciate the compliment,” he says, accepting her offered seat, “but from where I sit, you are looking to be a usurper on that title.”

She smiles, red lips thinned in cool amusement. “You flatter me, Bruce.” The large man, Butch, comes in with drinks—wine for her, tea for the younger ones—before making a quick exit. “But let us not play petty games. Why are you here?”

“I need something from you.”

“Do tell.”

And so he does, succinctly and without unnecessary embellishment. She listens in polite silence, nods when appropriate, and seems to be genuinely interested in his petition—which, quite frankly, is more than he dared to expect when first crossing a threshold which he probably shouldn’t be crossing. (Alfred had a few choice criticisms to say, starting at eight last night and all the way to nine this morning.) But the reality doesn’t stop him. He is not a child. If he wants to seek advice from a business associate (see also: rival) who may or may not participate in underground activities, that is his prerogative.

(Besides, she can’t be all that bad. Jim says she is suspected of sponsoring one of G.C.P.D’s own at the university.)

Bruce realizes how long he’s been talking when Mr. Gilzean comes in with sandwiches and iced tea. Iris doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

“Well, Bruce, the solution to your problem is simple.” She sips her wine with all the dainty care of a proper lady. “You have dogs barking day and night who simply can’t be tamed. As such, there is a need for removal of the beasts. Nothing drastic, of course: just a simple cleaning of house.”

“There have been a handful of them with more…imagination than others.” He chooses the words carefully; Alfred did emphasize the importance of holding his tongue when necessary and not sharing too many details. One never knows who might be listening, after all.

A slim eyebrow lifts. “And do the dogs have teeth, or are they simply bark and no bite?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I suggest you find out, Bruce.” She says, swirling the wine in its glass. “After all, a bite from a rabid mutt could become terribly infected.”

***

As it turns out, most of the ‘dogs’ are all bark and no bite: there is plenty of animosity at the moment of their dismissal, a few shouted threats which warrant a note in their personnel files, and security notices to have them removed should any return to the Wayne Enterprises be attempted. Ultimately, though, nothing comes of it.

But there are exceptions. And one happens to be more explosive than expected.

“You should have come to me as soon as the first threat was dropped.” Jim is, to be frank, not pleased at these circumstances. Neither is Alfred, but Bruce strongly suspects his butler is more upset at a bullet shower in the Bentley than anything else. “ _Never_ take things like this lightly, Bruce!”

He hears Alfred make some response, but it falls to the wayside as movement beyond the window catches attention. The others don’t see it, but he does. Possibly a tree shaking shadows in the night breeze, or some sort of little wildlife scurrying about.

Or a cat on the prowl.

He slips out the first exit he finds and makes for the roof. She’s waiting, wearing black leather and a smirk.

“You know,” she purrs, crossing one leg over the other, “most people have the sense to duck when a bullet flies at their head.”

“I’d like to know which people you hang around,” he returns, sinking into the comfortable banter which has been woven so securely into their relationship from the first day, “who can see bullets before they actually make impact.”

They spend the remaining evening hours in conversation. Selina adjusts the bandage around his head with a quip about doctors being overpaid for incompetence, then accents it with a kiss. (No lipstick mark follows, but he feels the imprint as distinctly as one might see it on white cloth.) She offers to readdress the issue with Iris, and while he is sorely tempted to accept, he elects to handle this on his terms.

(It would speak badly, if only to his sense of pride, to be incapable of handling his own affairs.)

They kiss, for the first time in a year, as the city clock strikes midnight.

***

Jim assigns Officers Petersen and Hall to the investigation. Alfred isn’t impressed, even gives Jim grief about putting a pair of ‘lackluster rookies’ in charge of ensuring Bruce’s safety. Five days later, he is required to eat his words when both officers report the ex-employee responsible has been apprehended, the gun found tossed in the dumpster a block from his apartment, and is in custody for his crimes.

“Right solid bunch you’ve got here, Detective.” Alfred says, during a weekly lunch visit to the precinct; Officers Hall and Petersen stand to a far left corner of the bullpen, chatting quietly with a dark-haired woman and bearded man, both detectives, who have yet to be introduced. After a short time, a younger officer joins them.

Jim offers a polite nod and hum of agreement; there is a curious look in the detective’s eyes about which Bruce would like to further inquire, but elects to hold his tongue for now. There is a time and place for questions.

The five of them take lunch together, a few minutes later. As Bruce and Alfred take their leave, only three return.

***

Her ascension to a ranking member on She-Wolf’s council is not questioned by the clansmen. They respect their leader’s decisions and, more importantly, respect their wives’ admiration of her. No one offers complaints, and no one is dumb enough to outright question the right of a seventeen-year-old girl to hold a place of high regard in the mafia.

That honor of stupidity belongs to an outsider.

He’s some newcomer from California with the brilliant idea to leave sunny shores for Gotham’s inviting atmosphere. His oozing charm isn’t fooling anyone from the start, but Iris takes everything in stride as she is known to do. Then this orange-tanned dimwit decides Iris is clearly uninformed about the foolishness of involving children in serious business matters. The veiled insult isn’t particularly offensive; honestly, Selina has heard worse.

But Iris is unimpressed.

“You didn’t need to do that.” Selina says, much later; Iris is dressing a squirming Celeste for bed, peppering the blonde babe with kisses until she giggles and waves all four limbs in delight. At two, nearly three years old, she’s getting big. In good time, Iris will probably let Celeste dress herself.

(It won’t be long now.)

“I do not tolerate such demeaning commentary towards those I hold in high regard, Selina.” Iris answers, sweeping her daughter in both arms with a swirl of violet nightgown and blonde curls. “Besides, it will do Mr. Abert good to better mind his tongue when attempting future business transactions.”

Selina lifts an eyebrow. “Will he still have a tongue to mind?”

“Selina,” the dark-haired woman chides, a smile nonetheless tugging at the edge of red lips, “extreme measures are not necessary for minor offenses such as these. Victor is simply offering the good man some life advice, and then he will be on his way.”

(On his way to a sanitarium, no doubt.)

*** 

Cleaning house at Wayne Enterprises goes about as well as expected: a few threats, disgruntled employees left and right, and lawsuits which lead nowhere after the accusers discover what civil lawyers cost these days.

Replacing the exiled proves a bigger challenge than Bruce anticipated. By the fifth week of interviews and sorting through applications (and making mental notes about assembling a Human Resources department), he’s exhausted and fit to bang his head into a brick wall.

He elects for a late-night walk instead.

Night is Gotham at her most dangerous. When darkness falls, monsters come out to play. Monsters with covered faces and guns and bullets— _one, two!_ And little boys scream in identical pools of blood, crying for a mother and father who will never again open their eyes and call him by name.

“Stop! Please, I don’t—”

The screams come sharp on the night air: like breaking glass, like bullets, like pearls dripping on pavement. Tears coat each one. Crying. Pleading. And a monster laughs.

He runs.

“Leave her alone!” he stands in a dark alley, facing a monster. This monster doesn’t cover its face; it intends to leave no survivors to describe its ugliness. Beyond the monster, a young woman with tears streaking her crumpled features.

A gun clicks in his direction. “Walk away, you little brat.”

The woman sobs. She has already accepted her fate, that this helpful stranger will indeed walk away without pursuing her salvation. There is no faith remaining in the people of this city. Gotham has stolen it from the innocent; turned it into something hideous that fuels these monsters of the night and shadows.

“I said, leave her alone!” Bruce repeats. He steps forward; blue eyes scan the alley for something, anything at all. He finally sees a heavy bit of wood: some kind of broken plank tossed off the side.

The bullet leaves its barrel before he gets a hand on the makeshift weapon. It grazes his shoulder: sharp burst of pain and heat. Blood trickles down his arm. It doesn’t stop him.

It’s surprises him, how hard he can swing this bit of wood. It shouldn’t leave such an impact, but it does. He feels the man’s leg break half a second before the scream splits air and rattles eardrums. He hefts it above his head, ready for another blow—but the monster is down, crumpled by the blow, crawling away. The threat is gone.

(But it will return. They always come back.)

“Go.” He says, to the woman. She cannot see his face: the darkness covers what a hood might leave seen. She is left to stare and marvel and wonder, even as she flees into the night for safer places. There is not even a thought in her head that it might be Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s young Prince, wielding a weapon and slaying monsters in abandoned alleyways. He is a faceless stranger emerging from the dark, fearless and prepared to spill blood in defense of those who need it.

A hero? No, that sounds much too noble.

But, maybe…

The sound of gloved hands clapping interrupts his mind. “Well, well,” the shadows do not betray her, but he knows her voice, “who knew Gotham’s Golden Boy could be so incredibly stupid? I mean, seriously, Bruce—he had a _gun_ , and what did you have? A piece of wood.”

“It got the job done.”

Selina descends with feline grace and barely a sound. “Next time,” she says, nodding at his shoulder; the wound itself is invisible but she must have been there to witness everything, “it might not. You could have been killed.”

“Not likely.” He steadies the wound with one hand and closes the distance between them. “I had a pretty good teacher, some years back.”

Her green eyes burn bright. He thinks, as a curl falls loose, her hair has gotten longer. “And don’t you forget it.”

***

Late-night walks become a regular habit. He slips out of the manor as soon as he’s assured Alfred is sleeping and heads for the city. He knows this cannot simple be a one-time occurrence. People need someone to look after them; defend them from the monsters. The police can’t be everywhere, at any given time.

But Bruce thinks, perhaps, he can. If he can take over a multi-billion corporation before his eighteenth birthday and survive a bullet—twice!—why can he not do this? _Be_ this?

There is still much to learn, he knows. The only way to learn, as Father used to say, is to do.

He wears black. Black blends into shadows, hides him until the moment he desires otherwise. Black disguises details of his face. Black doesn’t show blood.

***

Bruce has grown over the years. Tall. Strong. And, if she does say so herself, not too hard on the eyes.

He’s also learned from the nights they spent engaging in reckless behavior and testing the Grim Reaper’s patience more than once. He may still be impulsive, and he needs to plan a little more carefully before just charging forward like a white-knight-wannabe, but he knows how to land a hit. He knows how to put a man twice his size down with a single blow.

(The execution is rough, but practice makes perfect.)

Sometimes, she just sits and watches and enjoys the show. Others, she waits until it’s over and then drops him a few tips. (He humors her with a smirk and cheeky comment, but she never fails to notice, the next time, he’s taken her advice to heart.)

And then there are nights like this, wherein a little participation is warranted.

When it’s over, there are half a dozen guys dropped like flies (some groaning, some cussing around broken noses, and others flat-out dead to the world), a sprained wrist for Selina, and an impressive shiner for Bruce.

“Alfred is going to kill you.” She says, but with affection, as she offers another icepack. Her wrist is bandaged, nice and tight, which limits movement but soothes the pain well enough.

Reclining against the bed, Bruce shrugs and quirks a smile. “It was worth it.”

“Was it?”

“Yes,” he says, and she notes (with a shiver otherwise denied) his voice has become rather deep, “it was.”

***

She returns to DeLaine Manor triumphant and unscathed. The clan is gathered for an evening of cigars, sporting events on TV, and plenty of booze to go around. At least for the men: all the women have retired to a far end of the house with tea and pastries.

The lady of the house is in the study. Shakta is napping at the window but wakes when Selina slips up the balcony and crosses threshold. For a moment, she doesn’t speak but instead observes the scene before her with fingers stroking the tiger’s nuzzling brow. No one notices her.

(But then again, they usually don’t.)

Zsasz is dressed down in slacks and black cotton (practically pajamas, really). Nygma is equally casual, though in a shade of green which admittedly does flatter his leanness. The two men sit a respectable distance apart on the sofa. Between them, Iris rests against her husband’s chest and drapes her legs over Nygma’s lap. No words are spoken between them. Zsasz has his fingers woven with Iris’, resting over her waist, and his cheek cushioned atop her hair. Nygma is buried in some cinderblock of literature, but one hand lies atop bare knees with casual intimacy.

Selina shifts, silently, and swallows. This is a scene in which she does not belong. Yet it remains a portrait she is not finished examining, imprinting upon memory. She studies every last detail with the scrutiny jewelers do a diamond. Examines the poses of all three adults; looks from a distance with fascination and wonder: to see all of them, these individuals of power, of countenances so carefully crafted to deadly perfection, at peace and vulnerable in their shared space.

She exits without attention. The treasures stolen from a rival’s secured safe can wait till morning.

***

It takes another couple months, but then articles start trickling into the daily newspaper: sightings of a figure in black; a stranger sweeping in from darkness at the first cry of distress and avenging the victimized. The mayor (some uptight suit with no sense of humor and too-large a nose) calls the unnamed a vigilante and publicly puts pressure on G.C.P.D. to address the issue immediately.

Letters from the public flood after the mayor’s proclamation. The citizens defend their faceless protector. A few sing praises peppered with criticism of Gotham’s Finest, that they are so incapable of performing adequately that another must step up. A very small handful support the mayor with fear of anarchy, now that masked men are using physical restraint to address the crime problem.

Selina smirks into her morning coffee, pulls the crossword puzzle for Nygma, and tosses the rest into the gaping jaws of a lit hearth.

***

Midnight rendezvous are not uncommon for them. Sometimes it’s by coincidence: they happen upon the same rooftop at the exact same time. Tonight, it’s some cozy little penthouse reserved exclusively for Mr. Bruce Wayne and presently accommodating Ms. Isis West (the need for aliases was established in her younger years, when she still answered to ‘Cat’, but with age comes classier identities to trade out) by invitation of the host to tonight’s gala. She arrived by car, a striking vision in black, and meandered aimlessly with coy smiles and sticky fingers before waylaid for a dance by Gotham’s most desired bachelor: himself a front-page-worthy vision in a tailored suit and a grin fit to melt knees.

One dance turned into two. Two turned into ‘just one more’ until all the guests filtered out and Bruce tugged her down carpeted halls, into a glass elevator, and now into this decadent little suite. She’s kicked off her heels, stretched her arms, and now a sound from behind brings attention back to Bruce.

Bruce, and the small box held in his open hand. 

Her eyebrows bounce. “Not that a girl doesn’t appreciate a little something now and then,” Selina remarks, “but what’s the occasion?”

Bruce shrugs. “Open it.”

She rolls her eyes, affectionately, and unwraps the offering with ease. The black velvet box is soft in her palm. The purple silk casing inside is cool and smooth to the touch. And the emerald pendant gleaming up at her upon its golden chain catches light quite pleasantly.

“You know, I could’ve stolen this and spared you the cash.”

“I know.” He reaches inside the box and strings the necklace between fingers. “Turn around.”

She’s wearing her hair in a French twist, leaving a bronzed neck exposed. His thumb brushes her nape as the clasp falls into place. He lets the touch linger, a moment more. (There is an old scar here. He wonders what the story is behind the pale pink line interrupting perfection.) Then, abandoning all thoughts of self-restraint, he follows impulse and kisses her there.

Selina sighs; exhales slowly. She lets him stay there, in that place, for a very pleasant minute. Bruce’s hand slips lower, lower, to the scandalously-low cut of her gown. The touch pauses below shoulder blades, warm and heavy and perfect.

“Keep going.” She whispers. 

Soon enough, the only thing she still wears is the emerald pendant, gleaming bright between her breasts.


End file.
